


Rainbound

by profdanglais



Series: Secret Things [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Snowed In, UST, except it's rain, for some reason, so rained in, which is not a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 11:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: A tropey trope-fest of trope-ness, here taking the form of "OTP stranded together due to bad weather and forced to share a bed."





	Rainbound

Rain ran in rivulets down Emma’s face, soaking her clear to her skin as she climbed the three steps onto the cabin’s wide porch. It was a small cabin and a simple one, not at all what she would have expected for a man with the cocky swagger of Killian Jones. It was incongruous, and she disliked it as she disliked all things that didn’t fit a pattern.

Frowning, she knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal the man himself, the charming twinkle in his bright blue eyes dying instantly when he saw her.

Killian slouched against the doorjamb and smirked. “Emma Swan,” he drawled. “Well, well. To what do I owe this dubious honour?”

She stiffened, hating having to ask him for this, for anything. “My car broke down,” she said grudgingly. “On the main road just past where you turn to go to the harbour. I remembered you lived around here and I thought I’d come and…” she sighed. “And see if you could help.”

He looked past her to the rain that was pounding down in torrents, turning his dirt drive to mud and the potholes into puddles, deceptively deep. He sighed himself. “You’d better come in, then,” he said, just as grudgingly as she. “There’s no point going out in this weather, best to wait until the rain lets up.”

“What about my car?”

“Are you afraid someone will steal it?” The frank disbelief in his voice rankled her, but she couldn’t refute his point.

“No.”

“Well then. It’ll be fine on the side of the road for a few hours. No one’s going to be out in this mess. Come in, Swan.” He stepped back and opened the door wider.

Emma took three steps into the cabin and stopped dead in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth agape. The interior was as simple as the exterior, a single room panelled in wood with a small kitchen along one wall and a narrow bed pushed up against another. A worn sofa and a battered sea chest sat in its centre. But what drew Emma’s attention, what astounded her, were the books. Shelves and shelves of them lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes of every size and colour, hardbacks and paperbacks and even some bound in faded leather.

She turned to look at Killian, who was watching her warily.

“Are all these yours?”

“I’m not in the habit of keeping books that don’t belong to me,” he said irritably.

“And have— have you read them all?”

“Aye.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Every last one, and I don’t appreciate your tone,” he snapped.

“Sorry!” Emma held up her hands. “Sorry. I just— I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh? And just what were you expecting, love?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know, like— like a bachelor pad or something. Someplace swish where you can bring your women.”

“I never bring women here,” said Killian shortly. Emma could only gape in response, and he ran a hand through his hair then shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans. “You’re dripping all over my floor,” he mumbled. “Let me get you a towel and a change of clothes.”

“It’s really not—”

“Yes, it is necessary,” he retorted, anticipating her protest. “I won’t have you getting pneumonia or some such. Not on my watch.” It was a weak attempt at humour, but she forced a smile. 

He opened a door just to the far side of the kitchen area and Emma could see a small bathroom with a shower and toilet. Killian pulled a clean towel from a shelf and handed it to her then went to the sea chest and removed a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He handed the clothing to her as well, and indicated the bathroom. “You can get changed in there,” he said. “Just hang your wet clothes on the shower rail. I don’t have a dryer.” He looked at her defiantly but she said nothing, merely took the clothes from him and headed to the bathroom.

He might not have a dryer but his clothes were clean and soft and she sighed as she slipped them on over her still-damp skin. She squeezed the water from her hair and wrung out her clothes as best she could before hanging them in his shower and returning to the kitchen, feeling oddly shy. It was a peculiar sort of vulnerability, wearing his clothes. Emma deeply disliked being vulnerable to Killian Jones.

His lips curled up when he saw her, his eyes softening in a way that made her want to squirm. “Those look far better on you than on me,” he said. Emma doubted that, but she managed to bite back the words. He didn’t need to know how attracted she was to him. How attracted she had always been. “I made tea,” he continued, handing her a steaming cup.

She sniffed it dubiously. “Tea?”

“Aye. Don’t look like that, Swan, just give it a try.”

“Don’t you have any coffee? Or better, hot chocolate?”

“No,” he said shortly. “It’s tea or nothing.”

Tentatively she sipped. It was strong and sweet, bitter in a different way than coffee but not unpleasant. She took a deeper drink. “I guess it’s all right,” she said.

His smirk told her he saw what she was doing but he merely sipped his own tea and moved to the sofa. He sat down and crossed one leg over the other, resting his mug on his knee as he took up a book lying facedown over the armrest. “You’re welcome to join me, love,” he said. “My library is at your disposal.”

Emma wasn’t much of a reader but she found herself intensely curious about what Killian had read, this man she only knew as her brother’s friend’s friend, the shameless flirt who had tried to sleep with her the first night they’d met then treated her with amused disdain ever since.

She sipped her tea as she wandered around the room perusing his bookshelves. He had an amazing variety of books, from histories to science fiction novels, heavy volumes of philosophy and slim ones of poetry.

Killian Jones reading poetry, she marvelled. Who could have imagined that?

“See anything you like, Swan?” asked Killian. She turned to see him watching her, a soft smile on his face. Without looking she snatched up a book and sat on the small sofa as far from him as she could manage, ignoring the fluttery feeling that rose in her chest from even that much proximity. From the corner of her eye she could see he was smirking at her again, with that glint in his eye that she hated, the one that said he understood her. Firmly, she ignored him, opened the book and began to read.

An hour later her teacup was forgotten on a corner of the sea chest, her legs curled beneath her as she devoured the words on the page. She failed to notice Killian get up and collect her teacup along with his own, carrying them to the kitchen.

“Care for some dinner, Swan?” he called.

Emma jumped, startled. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted some dinner. It’s still raining, and I’m hungry.”

Emma’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. She flushed bright pink and Killian laughed. His laugh made him look younger, carefree, his eyes twinkling brightly. He was unfairly gorgeous, thought Emma, not for the first time, though for the first time she wasn’t mad about it. He was being nice for once, the least she could do was reciprocate.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

“It’s chicken marsala, if that’s okay.”

“Um, I don’t really know what that is, but I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she replied, and he smirked again.

“Not a terribly adventurous eater, are you love?”

She tried not to bristle defensively. “I just know what I like.”

“But if you never try anything new, how do you know you won’t like that too?”

Emma had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t just talking about dinner. She shrugged. “I’ll try this chicken whatever and let you know.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” he muttered.

Emma tried to return to her book, but she found she could no longer focus. Setting it down on the sea chest she approached the kitchen cautiously. “Um,” she began, twisting her fingers nervously when he looked at her. “Is there— can I help?”

Surprise flared in his eyes and they softened with an expression that made her heart thud painfully. Then he blinked, and the smirk was back. “Think you can manage to slice some mushrooms?”

“Without chopping my fingers off, you mean,” she snarked.

“Aye, preferably. I don’t find blood to be a very tasty seasoning.”

She snorted and he grinned, and handed her a knife. She took it and moved to the chopping board, frowning as she concentrated on slicing the mushrooms evenly and not on the disconcerting man standing so close to her in the tiny kitchen.

“So how did you learn to cook?” she heard herself ask.

Killian gave her a sideways glance, surprised again, but he answered politely. “I spent ten years in the Royal Navy, and travelled a lot. Whenever I had leave I would go exploring and try to learn something new. In Italy, through an odd series of events I ended up on a farm in the hills above Rimini and was taught pasta making there by a beautiful Italian woman called Marcella.”

She snorted again. “Of course you were.”

“She wouldn’t approve of me using her recipe for chicken marsala, I imagine, but I think they go well.”

“And what else did you and this Marcella do?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, Swan. She was eighty, and had arthritis in her hips.”

“Oh.” Emma focused on the mushrooms again, feeling ridiculous.

“Now her granddaughter Emilia, on the other hand, we did _quite_ a few things together.”

His smile was teasing when she turned to huff at him, and she couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t know how much of this to believe,” she said.

“Every word, Swan. Everything I say is one hundred percent solid gold.”

“Solid fool’s gold, maybe.”

He laughed at that, deep and rich and filling her with a tingly warmth. “Ah, Emma Swan, you are a challenge,” he chuckled.

Emma’s laughter died at those words. A challenge. Wasn’t that just a nicer way of saying _difficult?_ Too much _trouble?_ Not _worth_ it?

All words she’d heard before.

Killian’s fingers brushed hers as he reached for the chopping board. “I love a challenge,” he said, his voice low and rough and too near her ear, his breath ruffling the fine hairs at her temple. She held her own breath to keep from gasping, and when she risked a look at him the soft expression was back in his eyes. Soft and understanding.

How did he _always_ understand her?

Her heart was pounding again, thudding so loudly she feared he’d hear it.

He took the board and tipped the mushrooms into a pan where they immediately began to sizzle. He stirred them, not looking at her, and when he spoke again his voice was normal. “Grab that bottle just to your left, would you love, and pour half a cup of it into this,” he said, laying a glass measuring cup where the chopping board had been.

Emma’s hand trembled slightly as she picked up the bottle, but she managed to measure out a half cup without mishap, and held it up when she was finished.

“Now what?”

“Pour that in here,” he instructed, indicating the pan with the mushrooms, now a pale brown.

She did so, jumping when the liquid hissed in the heat of the pan. Killian chuckled, continuing to stir. “Burns off the alcohol,” he said.

“What’s the point of that?” she attempted to joke.

His smile took on a razor edge. “If you’d like me to get you drunk, Swan, all you have to do is ask.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Your loss, darling.” Killian poured some chicken stock and cream into the pan along with what looked like mustard and spices she didn’t recognise. He gave it a final stir then covered the pan and lowered the heat and lifted a towel off of several small nests of uncooked pasta. Emma peered at them, fascinated.

“You really made this?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“And… you’re sure there’s enough for me?”

“I always make two servings. It’s hard to cook for just one person, and I have the leftovers for lunch the next day.”

“So what will you do for lunch tomorrow?”

He shot her another smirk, but a soft one this time. An I-appreciate-your-concern-but-it’s-all-under-control smirk that she recognised from her own arsenal of expressions. “I’ll think of something, Swan. Don’t worry about it.”

He lifted the lid off a pot bubbling on the back of the stove and tipped in some salt, followed by the pasta. He stirred it with a fork and replaced the lid, leaving a gap for the steam to escape. Opening a cabinet, he withdrew a colander and placed it in the sink.

“Plates and glasses are up there,” he said, indicating a cabinet next to the refrigerator. “If you could grab two of each. Wine glass for me but you’re welcome to have water, or I’ve got some iced tea.”

Emma hesitated. She’d always been so careful not to drink too much around him, afraid of what loosened inhibitions might lead her to say, or do. But surely one glass of wine wouldn’t hurt? She took down two plates and two wine glasses, then looked around for where to put them.

“I eat on the sofa,” said Killian quietly.

“Okay.” Emma kept her face neutral. He was clearly sensitive about the way he lived. She supposed he was worried she’d judge him for it.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

She set the plates and glasses on the sea chest then returned for silverware just as Killian was pouring the pasta into the colander. He removed the chicken from the sauce and replaced it with the drained pasta, tossing it along with a splash of the water it was cooked in. Emma watched, impressed by the ease and confidence of his movements. He’d definitely done this before.

That Marcella must have been some teacher.

“The wine’s in the fridge,” he called to her, “If you wouldn’t mind opening it.”

His fridge was ridiculously clean —Emma wondered vaguely why this surprised her, given the rest of his place— and she found the wine lying on its side on the top shelf. She took it out and twisted off the cap then brought it over to the sea chest, where Killian had just placed a serving bowl full of pasta and neatly sliced chicken. He sat down and using two large forks scooped some onto both of their plates while Emma poured the wine. She sat next to him, and awkward silence fell.

Emma had the wild thought that all they needed were some candles and maybe a few actual chairs and this would be a very romantic date indeed. She stuffed a huge bite of pasta into her mouth to cover her embarrassment.

And nearly groaned in delight.

It was delicious, creamy and rich with a slight sweet tang. Her eyes fell closed as she chewed slowly, wanting to savour it, and when she opened them again she found Killian watching her with an unreadable expression.

“What’s the verdict, then, love?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful.” Emma couldn’t even snark. She sipped her wine and was delighted again as its flavours perfectly complemented the ones the chicken had left in her mouth. “Do you eat like this every night?”

“Pretty much, aye. Food and books are my only indulgences.”

“And women.” The words were out before she could stop them, and Emma winced as his expression shuttered.

“Aye,” he agreed tightly. “And women.”

“Well this is amazing,” she said effusively, “One of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Better than Granny’s grilled cheese?” he teased, with a tentative smile.

“Well, let’s not get carried away.”

He chuckled, breaking the heavy tension between them. Emma sighed lightly in relief, and they both began to eat.

“You were reading quite intently earlier,” Killian remarked after a short silence. “What book did you pick?”

“Oh,” she said, surprised by the question. “I just grabbed it at random, but it’s so good. It’s, um—” she picked up the book and flipped it over to look at the cover. “ _Northern Lights_.”

He nodded. “One of my favourites. That copy I actually brought from England when I moved here. In the US it’s called _The Golden Compass_.”

“Oh yeah! That was a movie wasn’t it?”

“Aye, an abomination of one, best forgotten.”

She rolled her eyes. “Book people always say that.”

“‘ _Book people_ ,’” scoffed Killian.

“Yeah, book people. You know, the people who no matter what the movie or miniseries or whatever tries to do are always like ‘Oh but the _book_ was so much _better,_ ’ like that’s special knowledge that only they have, or something.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, “Some adaptations of books have been very well done, but in this case we ‘book people’ are completely correct to say the movie is utter crap.”

“Well, when I’m done reading it I’m gonna watch the movie and judge for myself.”

“That’s the wisest strategy for most things, I find,” he replied, and again she had the uncomfortable sense that he was talking about more than the subject at hand.

“You said books were your indulgence,” she blurted, surprising herself with the question. “What did you mean?”

He gave her a searching look before replying, and when he did his voice held a quiet sincerity she’d never heard in it before.

“I’ve always loved reading,” he said. “My mum was a librarian, and when I was a child I wanted to be one too. But you need a degree for that and by the time I was eighteen my mum was dead and my father had drunk away all the money she’d saved for my education. So I went into the navy instead.” He sipped his wine. “I intended it just to be for a few years until I’d saved some money myself but I ended up liking the lifestyle and I figured what was university really but a lot of reading, which I could do on my own for free.”

Everything he said was true, but Emma could it wasn’t the whole story. Their understanding cut both ways.

“You regret that now, don’t you?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question. 

He looked wry. “Aye, I do. It’s hard to get any decent job without a degree, so now I work at the docks until I’ve saved enough to buy my own boat.”

“What kind of boat?”

“A sailboat,” he replied. “For me, mostly, but I figure I could make a decent living chartering it for tourists.”

She nodded. He probably could.

“So that’s why you live so simply. To save for your boat.”

“Aye.”

It was such an unexpected twist on the character of this man she’d thought she had the measure of that Emma could barely get her head around it. She was beginning to think she’d badly misjudged him.

And that _terrified_ her.

She asked him to tell her about the boat he wanted and they made surprisingly easy conversation until the food was eaten and the wine drunk. Emma insisted on carrying the plates and glasses back to the kitchen where Killian insisted on washing them immediately. “No dishwasher,” he said, and there was a lightness to the admission that had been lacking in earlier ones of a similar nature. Like he knew Emma would understand now why he chose to forgo expensive household appliances.

She did. And she insisted on drying.

When the kitchen was spotless she hung up the dishtowel and felt awkward again. It was late and she had already stayed far longer than she’d planned, but the noise of the storm outside was if anything even louder than before.

“It’s still coming down in buckets,” said Killian, looking out the window into the dark night. “The roads are likely flooded. I fear you might be stranded here, Swan.”

She tried to answer but her words were swallowed up by a yawn that nearly cracked her jaw. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take the sofa,” he said. 

Emma regarded the furniture in question. “It’s not very comfortable”.

“I’ll manage.”

“Killian, no,” she protested. “I feel bad enough showing up unannounced and eating your food, I’m not going to steal your bed too. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Absolutely not, you said yourself it’s uncomfortable.”

“I don’t mind—”

“No. And that’s final.”

She threw up her arms in exasperation. “Well, I guess we’ll have to share the bed, then.”

The moment the words left her lips she regretted them. She froze, barely breathing, unable to look away as she waited for his reply. He had also gone completely still, staring at her with hooded eyes. “All right,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Emma sucked air into her lungs. “All right,” she echoed.

The tension was back now, thicker than before but no longer awkward. Nervous. Anticipating. _Eager_. He produced a spare toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet and she brushed her teeth and splashed water on her hot face. When she finished in the bathroom Killian went in and Emma approached the bed with butterflies dancing in her belly. It seemed to grow narrower the closer she came and she wondered how they would manage. If they tried to keep too far apart they risked falling out. But if they got too close...

She imagined Killian pressed up against her back, his arm around her waist, his warm breath teasing her hair as it had in the kitchen. The butterflies in her belly began to do rhythmic gymnastics, and her heart beat so fast she felt faint.

_I should have let him take the sofa._

She climbed into the bed, scooting as close as she could get to the wall. That way he wouldn’t have to climb over her to get in, she thought. Yeah. That sounded plausible.

Killian emerged from the bathroom wearing another sweats-and-t-shirt combo, and a carefully blank expression. He climbed in next to her, careful not to let their bodies touch. “There’s a switch right by your head,” he said. “To turn out the light.”

“Okay.” Emma flipped it and the room plunged into darkness. She rolled onto her side, her back to him, and tried to ignore the sound of his breathing and the heat radiating from his body, tried to ignore her blood pounding through her veins and the way she absolutely _longed_ to know what it would feel like to have his arms around her. To kiss him. To—

“No!” she whispered, too loudly, and felt the bed shift as Killian turned.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, his voice low and soft, like he _cared_. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.”

She could feel his eyes on her, could sense him willing her to turn around and face this, this pull of attraction between them, always difficult to resist and nearly overwhelming now that she actually _liked_ him.

“Swan,” she heard him whisper.

It had been there from the beginning, that attraction, fierce and terrifying and like nothing she’d ever felt before, which of course was why she had been so eager to write him off as another asshole only interested in fucking her. In retrospect, viewed through fairer eyes, he had probably just wanted to get to know her a bit, maybe ask her out. She had shot him down, _epically_ , and Killian, she could see now, had taken refuge behind snark and disdain to protect himself, exactly as she would have done in his shoes.

She’d been an idiot, and a jerk, and she wished like hell she could do it all over again. But it was too late.

She forced herself to relax, to close her eyes and breathe deeply and evenly. Killian sighed and the bed shifted again, and after several interminable minutes his breathing evened out as well and she sensed he was asleep.

It was a long time before she followed.

—

Emma awoke when the sunlight shining through the window threatened to blind her. Grumbling incoherently, she buried her face in her pillow.

Or would have, had her face been on a pillow.

Instead it was pressed against Killian’s chest, his t-shirt soft under her cheek and the spicy, musky scent of his skin filling her nose with every breath. She inhaled deeply and rubbed her cheek against him and his arms tightened around her.

His arms were around her. So _that’s_ what that felt like.

She felt warm and protected. Content. _Loved_.

_No!_ Emma jerked back, digging the heel of her hand against his ribs, and he jolted awake.

“What the devil— oh!” His eyes widened as he took in their position, his arms still around her and their legs entwined, their faces inches apart. “Bloody hell!” He scrambled out of the bed, stumbling backwards and almost falling on his ass as he did. “I’m sorry, Swan, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Emma willed her stupid heart to stop beating so fast, to stop being hurt by his reaction.

“It’s not, I—”

“I said it’s fine, Killian!” she snapped, and he closed his mouth, running both hands through his hair then clenching them into fists at his side, unsure of where to put them.

“Looks like the rain’s stopped,” he said. “We can go get your car now. Do you, um, would you like breakfast first? Tea?”

“No. Thank you.” She wanted to get the hell away from him, before she did something stupid.

He nodded. “Aye. Well, get dressed then and we’ll be off.”

He moved towards the kitchen just as Emma rolled from the bed and they collided awkwardly. His hands came to her hips to steady her while hers landed on his chest and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips. He caught an unsteady breath and when she dared to look up she saw his eyes were wide and full of the same longing that ached within her.

“Emma,” he whispered.

The sound of her name on his lips, in his voice, when he’d only ever called her _Swan_ or _love_ , was more than she could take. Her hands on his chest clenched into tight fists, gripping his t-shirt and pulling his mouth to hers, into a kiss that blazed instantly into barely-leashed passion, all open mouths and clinging lips and his tongue stroking hers in a way that set her on _fire_. One hand tangled in her hair as the other slid down to cup her ass, pulling her hips into his so she could feel the press of his erection against her belly. She moaned and ground against him, as close as she could get, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted his skin on hers, his mouth all over her, wanted to hear him moan her name into her flesh.

She pushed him away, ignoring the flash of fear in his eyes, and pulled his shirt off her body. His eyes instantly latched onto her bare breasts, hunger chasing away the fear, and she smirked. “Now yours,” she rasped.

He nearly tore the shirt in his haste and Emma gave herself a second to admire his lean form liberally covered in dark hair before launching herself at him, toppling them both onto the bed. His mouth was on hers again, kissing her deeply as his hand cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb as her own hand slid beneath his sweats and closed around his cock.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he spluttered, grabbing her wrist almost painfully and pulling her hand away. “Don’t do that again if you want this to last.”

“But—”

“Emma, please. I have wanted you for so bloody long I could be finished in minutes, but I would very much prefer to take my time.”

The way he purred the words made her tingle, the look in his eyes made her melt. “Take your time how?” she gasped.

“Well I’ll start by kissing you.”

“You’ve already—”

“ _Everywhere._ ” His hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping through her slick flesh, gliding across her clit with the lightest touch. “There are some parts of you I just want to _lick_.”

“Oh, god.”

“Indeed.”

“And then what?”

“After I’ve tasted every inch of you and made you come at least twice with my mouth and my fingers—”

“Cocky,” she gasped as his fingers slipped inside her, one first and then another, stroking her walls as his thumb caressed her clit. 

“ _Confident,_ darling,” he corrected. “As I was saying after I’ve made you scream my name—”

“Oho, screaming your name now—”

“—then I will run as fast as I can to the sea chest because that’s where the condoms are.”

She laughed, her face pressed to his shoulder, gripping his shoulders as his fingers worked inside her, proving his confidence was not misplaced.

“And then,” he said, leaning down to breathe the words in her ear. “Then I will fuck you, hard and deep and _thoroughly,_ as I have wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“I knew it,” she gasped. “I knew you just wanted to fuck me.”

“Not ‘just’, Emma,” he said, pulling back to look at her, so she could see the truth in his eyes. “I want everything with you.”

She waited for the fear to come, and the overwhelming urge to flee. Waited, but it never came.

Instead, she did, as Killian’s thumb pressed hard on her clit and her orgasm ripped through her, taking her by surprise.

“ _Fuck,_ Killian!” she screamed.

“Later, darling,” he murmured, fingers still inside her as he eased her down from her high. “That’s only one.”

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with eyes softer than she’d ever seen, warm and full of promises she knew he’d keep.

She smiled. “Maybe I’ll stay for breakfast after all,” she said.


End file.
